One in the Same

Hundreds of years have I thrived from death.

And yet blood forever tastes so divine as though

Nectar has run in their veins,

A vase with sweet perfume that never empties.

The poor man came for fish, though we alone feasted.

Nay, fate be not like the moves of bitter kings who sit upon crumbling thrones.

Prediction won’t save the willing soul anymore than it will the body.

For choice is but a reflection of decision,

A fatal dream doomed by wilting despair.

“Come hither, Larice. Men of hunger

come aknocking upon death’s door. Now answer.”

This be Mucariet, mother of us all, forged from the salty earth all those years ago.

She scarcely admires her handiwork, for she knows no man boasts blows more deadly than hers.

Again the siren hails me and this time I come bearing an answer.

“I shalt do thy bidding, Mucariet.

Failure takes no toll amidst my talent.”

And so I claim my post along the rocky shoreline,

Waiting for a victim. A fool asking to die.

Man comes whole and leaves a spirit,

To be judged by the gods and their wrath.

Twas there a time when pride sang softly?

By whence path has man fallen in anger and fear?

I do not care.

Please, let it proceed.

Shouts.

Shouts

Shouts

Shouts.

They come at random intervals.

Sweet as a summer’s day and soothing

As a golden sunset.

“Begin thy song.”

Around me rises music made from talent and beauty,

No strings made from worthless metal nor crafted woodwinds

That cradle but the tune of an unnatural song.

For who else possesses beauty worth killing for?

Beauty that kills.

The ships of large are far out at sea.

Away from the shoreline for now,

Yet still tempted by our voices.

It will take only an instant to draw them toward our land.

Soon they will come in anticipation like all those before them.

Ants to sugar; Birds to berries.

Men to unrivaled beauty.

Tis naive of one to judge based merely on appearance

As well as sound.

This sound will force them from their ships and from their wives.

Their children will have no father

And no recollection of his noble acts.

A child will look to the heavens for guidance,

Only to stare at the empty stars glittering in the sky.

The ship was getting closer to the shoreline,

It’s sails working neither for nor against the invisible pull.

“Pull men, pull!”

Who be this man in fine clothes and with voice deep?

The captain, no doubt,

And who by thy handsome strapped to the mast?

A prisoner, tied in rope and longing.

How silly.

Those binding chains won’t stop the restless soul.

Desire has no restrictions in physical restraint.

Perhaps I shalt admire thee on shore,

Once they have left the sea from whence the men sang in sanctuary.

Well, screamed actually.

“Want you death, ye squabbling men? Pull thy oars! Pull!”

They have become desperate now, as all do.

I might as well if I knew not which breath would be my last.

Sweat has broken out across the captain’s face.

The man on the mast must be inflicting stress upon his.

His loud moans and salty tears fall down his swollen eyes.

He cries to be released, to come join us on the rocks.

Odd. It seems he is the only one.

For a second it seems that he may break free,

Until with every turn and howl a loop is added to his restraints.

The Sirens around me are utterly perplexed.

Each ship is retreating further and further away from the shoreline;

We are being passed by.

Mucariet stomps the ground in frustration, urging us to sing louder.

And so we do.

The captain looks up for a short time and examines our figures cast off in the distance.

Beeswax is a blessing, but even it’s mystical intentions are silenced

When we try hard enough.

Then, as quick as the wave that shatters against the rocks,

He has turned to his men once more.

None of those fools succumbs to even a glance.

That is all it would take.

A glance.

A curious ear peeling off the wax.

Our words aren’t words. They are sounds, emotions trapped inside quiet waves

Of an elegant tune, or a warm hand inviting them closer.

Man uses words for everything evil, and for everything good.

How superior are we? We need not a word or object to use as a weapon.

Music will be man’s downfall.

Or will it?

For as I speak away goes the ship with all on board.

Retreating off into the distance,

The first to carry their lives and hope away from our shore.

We stop our song, for only a moment.

A moment spent gazing in wonder at such inferiority

Who makes haste from an impossible situation.

Do they take us as fools?

Perhaps we are.

Ponders me, ‘Why do we act as so?’

Who commands thee unto committing such hostile actions?

And so breaks a veil that has forever covered the obvious.

These men flee not as cowards.

They use wit as kings.

Mucariet turns to thee and frowns.

“Have you an inkling?”

“A thought I do boast.”

“Speak! My temper rises like the tide.”

But I don’t.

Cruelty has no place with song.

Be there far too many a time when unfathomable

deeds decide our loyalties for us.

Whoever stands strong to a value so just that it is seen as treason

Will surely meet a fate as honorable as honor itself.

Perhaps I have done wrong.

Perhaps all I ever have done is wrong.

Perhaps.

Perhaps the foolish king and foolish peasant

Are one in the same.